


we are, for some reason, all the time, bleeding

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: ij porn_battle, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, M/M, Prostitution, Threesome, Threesome - Slash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-27
Updated: 2008-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lines are crossed, but not the right ones.  For the prompt "not what you expected."</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are, for some reason, all the time, bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story happened because my mind isn't organised enough to respond to meta about PWP stories with meta. . . so. It's a PWP, y'all. But I wouldn't say it's sexy.
> 
> Title from the song Weekend in Western Illinois by The Mountian Goats.

> we are hotly in love with one another
> 
> we've got an unquenchable thirst in our throats
> 
> we are for some reason all the time bleeding
> 
> and we are friendless
> 
> The Mountain Goats

Rodney thought it would be hot. He thought about it a lot. He knew John had his own fantasies. They'd even acted some of them out. The thing with the jumper, and the time in the mud after the monsoon rain, and also any time involving blindfolds or scarves or painful-looking clamps? Those were all John's fantasies.

So he hadn't thought this would be different.

It was exactly what he'd imagined. And John had gone along with him at every step, looking faintly bemused at the amount of research and precision Rodney devoted to the project. First, they had to be on earth, and then they had to be in one of the nine cities in the continental United States where Rodney knew there were places they could go. He wasn't going to risk anyone's health or safety. All he wanted was to see John being fucked up the ass and fucked in the mouth at the same time. He thought that sounded hot.

And it was hot. Mind-blowing. He'd practically written a script, and he was paying the two men enough for them not to get creative and deviate. John had been cooperative and hadn't even said anything as he stripped off his clothes and folded them onto a chair. He'd given Rodney a challenging kind of look, as if this was some kind of peculiar indulgence. Rodney sat on his own chair, fully dressed, legs crossed at the ankles, halfway turned on already. John opened the door when he was ready and let the men in.

John got on the bed, knees wide, looking back in question, and the shorter man walked right up and spread John's ass. He checked that John was lubed, rolled on a condom, and pushed.

Rodney had wanted to be able to see John's face and his ass at the same time. He'd figured out exactly where to place the chair and the mirrors, and his eyes flicked rapidly over all his views. The ass end was basically porn, exactly what he'd expected, but John's _face_ captivated him. There were subtle differences in John's expression between when he braced himself and when his body was breached, and Rodney felt a flush of triumph as John had to force his body to relax to let the man's cock in. John kept turning his head away, trying not to look at Rodney, trying not to be seen. It didn't work. His ass unclenched enough to allow the man to shove his cock home, and John's face as he surrendered was reflected above and below and straight on, his jaw working, his eyes washed out and a little stunned.

It was even hotter than in Rodney's fantasy, and he shifted on the chair, adjusting himself in his pants. He could see John breathing hard, panting, sweat shining on his shoulders.

They had agreed upon safety words and safety signals, even the guys who were getting paid, it was safe-safe-safe, but Rodney realised he'd been lying to himself a little. A lot. A safety word was only good if you _used_ it, and he knew — had known all along — that John wouldn't. He supposed that he could stop everyone himself if he thought. . . if it went too far.

But right now the taller man was pulling John's head up, his fist knotted tight in John's hair, and he moved John's mouth onto his cock, and that was just — there weren't _words_ for it. He could go into sensory overload from this: all the Johns in the mirrors and the sounds of flesh on flesh, the smells of sweat and the sweet mint flavouring from the condom.

Rodney was paying an awful lot of money, and that meant he had had choices. Blond or brunet, black or white or Asian or other (_other?_ he'd thought). Cut or uncut dicks, long and short and fat and bent ones. He'd figured, for that amount of money, bigger was better: good porn-star cocks, heavy, thick, dangerous-looking. Plus he knew John had a thing about being _filled_. It wasn't that John always bottomed, but Rodney had noticed that whenever John topped it was a threesome with something silicone (probably vibrating) up John's ass. Rodney had fucked John once without taking the dildo out after warming John up. It was kind of weird, his dick sliding against the fake one, John's eyes squeezed shut and his body forced open. John would probably like fisting, Rodney thought. John would like being turned inside out.

But Rodney had maybe been a little too fixated on porn as a basis for his fantasy. The two men were hard-muscled, well-groomed and tanned, and they probably shaved in places that Rodney would never, ever dream of touching with a razor. They also both had their heads practically shaved, like porn versions of Marine recruits. Rodney hoped that John understood he _hadn't_ asked for that, because this wasn't a, a _humiliation_ thing.

The man who'd taken his order (could he say that? He hadn't _requested_; he knew he hadn't said please) had asked very blandly whether this was a punishment. Rodney had been horrified, and had tried to explain that it was a _fantasy_. He had ignored the murmur of _not necessarily exclusive_. John liked cock, and Rodney liked _watching_, and that was all it was.

He didn't think too much about why he wanted to watch this. Hot was hot. John was being rocked back and forth slowly. The taller man still had a fistful of John's hair, but he was just holding him there. Showing him to Rodney. Waiting for Rodney's signal to fuck John's mouth. Why not? Rodney wanted him to.

The thing was, Rodney knew exactly what it felt like: to have John's mouth stretched around his dick, to touch that hair, to spread John open and hold him open, with fingers or tongue or dick or dildo or _whatever_. He knew all the pieces, but this was the first time he ever saw them all together, and it was all new. He could see muscles bunching and moving in John's legs, and the way sweat stuck down the hair along John's legs in dark calligraphy. John curled his toes in whenever the taller man pulled back to let him breathe, and he took short, stealthy little breaths that made his chest expand as if he were running.

John couldn't look away. John couldn't move. John was coming to pieces. It made Rodney think of nuclear fission.

It was so hot.

He could see the way John's vertebrae poked up with each hard rhythmic rock up into his ass. He could see the bulge of the taller man's dick against John's cheek, moving, sliding back again and again to the place where the gag reflex kicked in. He could see John's cock getting hard despite whatever John'd been telling himself. He could see John sliding down beneath the viscous onslaught of stimulation. He could tell himself that it was pleasure. That it was.

Hot.

So damn hot.

The shorter man looked at Rodney, and Rodney thought about how amazing it was that people actually made a living by being told how to come. He half wanted to test the man's stamina, but he also didn't want John coming on a stranger's dick. Rodney did the thing with his hand, and the man's hands on John's hips tightened as he drove in hard, nearly shoving the other man's dick down John's throat. It took longer than Rodney would have thought for them to find a good rhythm that allowed John to breathe. It was the first time Rodney had ever seen tears in John's eyes.

The taller man came first. Rodney was rather smug: John was just that good at giving head. The man stepped back, dripping sweat, pulled the condom off and left, as per Rodney's request. The men weren't important. John was. He'd dropped down to his elbows, pressing his forehead hard against the mattress. The slap of solid thighs against his ass was loud. Rodney saw John's dick jerk in response. John didn't touch himself. His hands were fists. Rodney could see his muscles working, his ass dimpling as he bore down.

Just when Rodney was wondering if he'd be charged extra if he sent the man away before he came, the man grunted low and surprised, as if he'd been shot. He had that stoic, pained porn star look as his façade washed away in orgasm, but he snapped right back into bland form in a moment. He held the base of the condom as he pulled out.

John rolled over onto his back as the door shut behind the man, the tongue of the lock clicking heavily into place. John stared at Rodney, first in a mirror, and then jerked his head around so that his eyes met Rodney's. He tipped his chin up.

Rodney crossed to the bed. He reached for John's cock and John slapped his hand away.

"In me," John said, through clenched teeth. "In me, in me, in me," until Rodney dropped his pants and yanked John's hips up and jerked John onto his cock. John gave a raw shout, panted open-mouthed. He turned his head to the side as Rodney fucked inside of him and said something that sounded like _Holy mother of God._

At least, that's what Rodney thought he heard, and the red-hot urgent need to come was sidetracked by Rodney trying to remember if John'd ever given any indication of being religious. He'd never fucked John into blasphemy before. This whole episode was turning everything inside out. Rodney'd bet a six-month coffee ration that John'd been raised with ideas about salvation and guilt and sin and atonement. Which was an awful lot like punishment, Rodney thought, pulling John's body open to twist and push _there_, hitting the hot spot on every stroke in.

John spread his arms wide, curling his fingers over the edge of the mattress and holding on so tight that Rodney could see every muscle harden from forearms to triceps to shoulders. Right when the tension hit John's neck, John's head snapped back and his back arched like a fish on a line, and he came. Each jerk of his cock wound his body tighter. Rodney could actually see him shake from the strain, could feel every shock and aftershock straight through his own dick, which was why Rodney couldn't stop moving even though John was fucked out, come snaking down over his chest hair every time he gasped for air, sweat running into his eyes, hands white-knuckled. Rodney felt a little lost, almost as if the window of opportunity for orgasm was slipping away; somehow detached.

He didn't even know that he was waiting for John to let him go until John made a sound, a moan or a sob that escaped the prison of John's throat and took him with it, up up up and over and out. Rodney's brain switched quietly off and his body went on automatic. The last thing he remembered was staring straight down at John's navel, as if it had somehow snuck up on him out of nowhere.

He wouldn't say exactly that he passed out. He remembered being rolled off John and out of John, but he couldn't be bothered to care until John got up. He watched John stand, twist his back and crack his shoulders. He heard John take a shower, and saw him walk naked across the room and start getting dressed.

"Hey," Rodney said, because implicit in that was some kind of accusation aimed at him, about lazing about in bed. This was Earth. He could laze if he pleased. He supposed John could implicitly accuse if he pleased, as well, but it was annoying. The room was paid for until midnight.

"Hey," John said right back, with no particular inflection at all. He pulled his ratty flannel shirt on over his t-shirt and ran a hand over his hair. Rodney usually sneered at the gesture as wishful thinking: John never could keep his hair down.

Rodney sat up and decided he didn't really need to clean up. He pulled up his pants and did up his belt and voila. So he was rumpled. He was often rumpled.

He was half tempted to apologise to John, who was balancing carefully to tug his socks on. To say, I'm sorry, that was wrong. He thought that would make John hit him. He probably deserved it.

Instead, he said, "That was really hot."

John looked over at him, eyes dark, something knowing there that was instantly wiped away into blankness and a hard, sharp smile. It made Rodney feel guilty, which made him feel angry. John had _agreed_.

"Really hot," Rodney repeated, and got up, brushing down his trousers. "I can't wait until next time." He smiled back at John, matching challenge with challenge. "Can you?"


End file.
